The Dynamics of Love and Power

Prelude

Power, oh the sweet seductive pull that is the nature of Power. Once you get a taste of it, you want more, as addictive as it is dangerous. That intoxicating feeling of just being above others. To find that your nature is simply superior to those little tiny scurrying masses with their small thoughts, their little desires. Just utterly that small minded, small bodied, way of thinking that is truly beneath my notice. Oh power, so many want it, yet would have no idea what to do with it once they get it. Usually just find a more elaborate way to fuck. Then what is the measure of power. Truly, what makes someone powerful. There’s so many ways to measure and define the term. To most people the simplest, most straightforward and awfully boring method would simply be money. That number that you want to go up and up and you feel so much better. Bigger numbers good. Small number bad. Negative number, oh fuck what have I done, or more accurately, as often is the case, failed to do. Money is power right, and that isn’t a wrong answer by any means, it’s a very tangible real way to measure it. Then you move on to what having money means, is it the one who has earned it, or simply the one who can access the money. The spouse, the lover, the offspring all those have access to it some more easily than others, does that mean they have or are just spoiled by power. There’s no one answer, it all depends on the person and the dynamics of the relationship, and in the gordian knot of a tangle that is our intertwining lives, the relationships you have are what make power worth it. If you have all this money and no one gives a shit about you, are you truly powerful? The answer is simple. I don’t care those, guys are assholes. Fuck them, I don’t want them in my story as anything more than squished paste under my sole. A number tells a tale, but it’s just the prelude not the whole story.

Power. My definition is that it’s the difference between wanting something, and how easily you can get what you want. You want a new car, a person without power works and earns or goes and gets a big old loan at whatever interest rate those with power think they can get away with charging, then voila new car. A truly powerful person says they want a car and voila it just seems to happen, through an assistant going through all kinds of effort, well that would be one powerful person right, most likely some rich asshole that has become aforementioned footstain. What if someone just had to ‘think it’ and it happens. A god has a thought, a mere idea, then a universe is born.

Now let’s forget all that. I had to have some kind of prophetic introduction to my story to set the tone. I will proceed to gladly introduce myself. My name is Xandra Jackson, and yes my parents do read a lot of books, it’s one of the things they have in common, so a sci-fi fantasy name fits me perfectly. I like my name. Even the few times that people pronounce my name as Exandra, honestly doesn’t bother me. I like that name too, it truly rarely happens anymore. I have an older sister named Moraine, and a younger sister named Denna. All girls and my two best friends, also families of all girls. The gender of those born seems to go in spurts and sequences. As if nature has its current mood and decides a little more of this, a little less of that for a time. I grew up in a middle income family and went to an all girls school until high school which was a big shift. It took some acclimation to say the least, then it was fun. After what seemed like forever yet so short at the same time, I finished that coming of age part of my life. Then off to college for, the who am I when no one’s holding my hand, part of life. That’s where I will begin my story, which may get lost among the stories of others. I know I sound like a confident storyteller, but believe me, I didn’t used to be. I was very much the shy bookworm often ignored middle child. I had good grades and didn’t really get in much trouble, the occasional weird video my friends and I would make and some online boyfriend scandals. Like I was going to run away with some random. No it was just some fun online that made me feel special, even had a minecraft romance once. It was just roleplaying. You’re humans so of course you want to know just what I look like. Tough shit I’ll never tell you pervs. Kidding, don’t tell anyone, but I’m something of a fetish freak myself. Here we go, I am 5 foot 2 inches tall and have very blonde hair, still to this day. I am told my blonde brightness will fade eventually. Spoiler, they were wrong, I am a blonde beauty for life. Blue eyes, about 130 pounds with huge boobs, yep huge DDD. They are a pain but they make a very certain special someone happy. So I’m happy. Big soft jiggly booty, soft thighs, and a flat stomach from yoga. Which the whole family did together my whole life. I still do even after moving out. Usually. Yes my parents are weird and wonderful, did I mention that? My bookish parents thought it was needed for everyone. This was just the intro, the prelude with attitude. Now on to the story, fast forward to my sophomore year in college, and let the show begin, my lovely little audience.

Chapter 1 The Ramble.

It's early evening and I just finished eating a late afternoon dinner. It’s the middle of September, about a month into my sophomore year of college. My friends from my freshman year and I found a place close to campus that’s for students. So we get a very slight rent discount. If you squint real hard you can actually see the savings. I have just two roommates who I really like. Much more importantly we actually get along great. The only fights we have are over messes. I'm still a bit of a neat freak about my spaces. The few boyfriends I have had often complimented me on how clear my care is. Those relationships didn’t go anywhere. My wonderful beautiful oh so dependable roomies and current best friends are Lisa and Jennifer. Could be worse, they could be named Phoebe. Stay away from Phoebes, I hear they’ll drain you dry and leave you to die. Lisa is way more open and wild about, well everything in life. That woman fully embraces the ‘it’s fucking college have a good time mindset’. Jennifer is really disciplined, she runs for the track team and is quite toned and so serious. She is funny as fuck when drinking though. The college I chose is only about a three hour drive from where I grew up in the Midwest. I’m a pharmacology major, studying to develop medicine. Which I find endlessly fascinating. I have always done well in the sciences. I’m no genius but the math and models are endlessly mesmerizing to me. Also in the theater club, we perform plays, occasional terrible improv shows, that I find hilarious at the time. You can find some performances uploaded on youtube. This may come as quite the shock, as I come across as quite confident in my writing, but I wasn’t that way at all back in college. Generally I’m confident with those I’m close to. Anyone outside my circle though, I get nervous as fuck, speaking first is a no go for me. But if we find a topic I like, I can talk and talk for hours. Introverted theater girl. I am not overly nervous or anything, just shy I suppose. Perhaps I just don’t have much to say on many subjects plus being comfortable with silence. 

It’s only a month into my second year, and I am already feeling daily dread. The trudge of routine. The college rut disease. It kind of feels like my life is mapped out for me, go to college, get a degree, job, settle down and have a family. It’s the normal thing to do. Normal? Normal is a truly harsh insult to the life I feel I want. Compared to the life that will bring me along a safe, tried and true path. I tell myself I can do both, the safe path and in my spare time be wild. But I am no good at wild. I want it, but I always stay between the lines marked safe. I know it’s a good thing. I’m lucky I can even go down this path in life. Maybe it’s just because I’m in college and 19, but fuck it makes me feel like a life zombie going through the motions. I just don’t know how to shake myself out of it. I’m stuck, and my motivation is sinking like a stone down the pit of routine. Everything I do is always reasonable, makes sense. This is the next step, this is how to be successful. Success is happiness right? In my heart  of hearts, that just doesn’t ring true. I want to be successful in what I do. I would rather be successful than the alternative that’s for sure. I have great friends. I'm happy when I'm with them. I love a  good book or movie, show, funny video, makes me happy. But that just sounds like I’m consuming, and need to be fed little bites of happiness. And those bites are getting stale, and no longer filling me up. When I make my friends laugh or they like what I cook and bake I feel great. I love to sing and that makes me happy. I don’t want to do that for a living, only for fun. Maybe if I could be a badass rockstar or something, hmm. I make a note in my phone to go to karaoke this weekend, nope broke, do karaoke at home this weekend, nope there’s that party and I have to work before that. Well sometime do it sometime. School, job, friends, theater, really doesn’t leave me with many brain cells left to do that thing where your brain comes up with stuff. Oh yeah, thinking. Time to get ready.

I stepped into the bathroom, stripped every piece of clothing away and adjusted the shower to the hottest setting I could stand. Tonight is the evening conference on women in the modern workplace. Thick steam rose around me while my thoughts drifted freely through all the questions I carried inside. By that point I had begun wondering seriously whether I was fully lesbian or perhaps bisexual. Handsome muscular men with smooth defined bodies still caught my attention and stirred something pleasant. Yet over the previous year my private sketches had filled almost entirely with women. My most intense private moments centered on raw BDSM lesbian domination scenes that left me trembling and soaked with need. Doubt kept circling because I could never decide if those urges lived only in fantasy or if they pointed toward something I genuinely wanted to explore. Pornography never matched real desire perfectly anyway. When it’s only in my imagination, pain play is very exciting. The thought of actual pain terrified a complete wuss like me. Still the sharp crack of whips paired with those deep throaty moans ignited me in ways nothing else could. I had never even kissed a woman, so the entire question remained wide open and unresolved. The two men I had dated had both wandered during our casual arrangements. College norms made it understandable, the sting still nudged me further along this path of wondering, fantasizing.

“Xandra, hurry the fuck up and quit wasting the hot water, your tits don’t need that long to wash. Masturbate in your bedroom like the total book slut you are.” Lisa shouted through the locked door. She’s not wrong, I am a total book slut. Lisa lived the full unfiltered slut life herself, and yet she still ranked as one of the absolute best friends I had ever known. She’s a total bitch, but a total bitch that is fully on your side.

“Fine fine you, you uh dick slut.” I’m still not good at tossing out insults, but Lisa is helping me with that. She finds it so cute when I try. Through the door I hear her laughing at my pitiful attempt at a comeback. She says a good insult is great for both defense and offense, and also  just for entertainment. Turning the slightly squeaky shower handle off, I step over the edge of the tub then dry myself off. Wrapping the towel around myself and tucking the corner of the towel into my cleavage, I head to my room. Lisa whisks past me and I hear the satisfying yell about how there’s no fucking hot water left. Call me a book slut, you get the cold shower treatment.

I wanted to look professional tonight. Mature. So I spent extra time blow drying my hair then curling each strand with careful attention because my natural blonde is a feature I am proud of, I have really silky hair that handles and holds most any style. I watch a tutorial I have seen more than a few times. Styling my hair into a layered French braid with two blonde strands curling down either side of my face. A light bit of spray to hold everything in place, and done. My makeup stays light and simple with just a soft sweep of eyeshadow and the faintest blush across my clear skin since my mother had never taught me advanced techniques and my naturally flawless complexion made heavy coverage unnecessary anyway. I slid into my pantyhose, stepped carefully into my heels, pulled on a long dark skirt and finished with a cream colored cozy sweater that felt ideal for the pleasant sixty degree evening air. Black garments filled most of my closet, not because I followed any gothic style, but simply because black always elevated any outfit into something timeless and classy. Exactly as one of the speakers would emphasize later that night. I leafed through the book written by one of the presenters fifteen years earlier, which still delivered sharp relevant insights. A professor had recommended it to me with genuine enthusiasm, even though her eyes held an oddly intense expression when she handed it over.

“You two ready? It’s time to go.” I hear Jen call, it’s a bit early in my opinion but Jen hates being late to anything.

“Alright alright, let’s head out.”

“What do you want, a seat in the front row or something Jennifer? It's like three minutes away and it’s still a half hour until it starts.” Lisa sounded clearly annoyed, yet she still stood completely prepared and ready to leave.

“So what if I do, we get extra credit in women’s studies for attending and I want to make sure Professor Bitch McPrudenstein sees me.” Jennifer could switch from genuine sweetness to calculated ruthlessness in a single heartbeat. Especially whenever someone crossed her, but otherwise she remained one of the kindest people I knew, and I loved her with everything I had. Her boyfriend matched that warmth completely and he handled oil changes for all our cars since his automotive program at the nearby technical school provided constant practice opportunities. Professor Carter pushed radical feminism so aggressively that it crossed straight into outright man hating, which only damaged the entire movement in my eyes. Her version turned into simple antagonism that stood no better than the worst examples of toxic male behavior. Hate without any real foundation always destroys more than it builds. The true dividing line separated cruelty from kindness in every situation. If only cruelty just didn’t exist. Professor Carter mostly kept her extreme views out of the actual classroom, and that restraint probably protected her job more than anything else. All three of us had enrolled in the course expecting the easiest credits of our entire college experience. It is easy as far as schoolwork goes, but is that as mentally draining as listening to her. It’s a tossup. Tonight she actually did me a favor as I would have wanted to go to this event anyway.

We pile into my 12 year old black SUV. I love the thing, it was my dad’s car and is still in pretty much perfect shape. Only has 120k miles on it, has no get up and go but I don’t need that. I learned to drive from my dad. Who drives like the most courteous person in the world. My mom magically transforms from kind and caring into a road version of Sonic the Hedgehog when driving. She straight up refused to teach me, she’s well aware of her habits. The drive is so short we don’t even really chat and get a great parking spot. Since we are so early. The wind picks up as it always does in the Midwest. So we rush inside and I have to reach down to hold my skirt from flying upward. The usher at the door just waves us through since it’s not a ticketed event. Then shuffle our way inside the auditorium. Sure enough we really do get to sit in the front row. The waiting game begins.

“I don’t think I’ve been here since we went to that improv show last year with Macy, my old roomie in the dorms. That was uh definitely a theater kids experience. I think they said bro over 250 times. They should have called their group the brodown instead of whatever it was they called themselves.” Lisa says looking around before getting her own phone out like we have already done.

“Utility of Futility, that was their name, I only remember it because it rhymes two weird words together, and Sam was in the group. He’s in microbio with me and is really smart. I guess he’s probably still in the group I dunno. Oh, and bitch, don’t you be down on theater kids.” I try to add some sass to that last bit. She just pats my thigh with a look that says, ‘aw she tried her best to insult me, that’s adorable’. Yes there’s a look for that. I get back to the important business of wasting time by flipping through videos with the CC turned on. I have seen improv videos on youtube that are funny as fuck. Apparently that’s not true for all of them. From my own experience it’s really hard to be clever on the fly. We stop talking, each in our little bubbles of videos and kind of just wait as the auditorium fills up a lot more than I thought it would. Eventually the lights dim and Professor Carter comes on stage to introduce the first speaker. We all put our phones away and listen, I enjoy the first speaker. It’s about job interviews and gives good advice and basically comes down to being yourself, but every negative aspect reverse it to a positive and treats the interviewer like they are an old friend you are happy to see after being apart. Yep, sure, easy as that. Just treat a stranger as an old friend. Next I will fly to the moon and set up my own colony. My sister is right. I am a sarcastic twot in my own brain. But the words don’t quite make it to the lips. This only matters if you can even get an interview in the first place.

The next speaker, Grace Tellerton gets a lot less interest from me. It’s about work-life balance and how important it is for women with our nurturing nature. Then I perk up as her speech is stopped halfway. Everything simply is quiet for a moment, with one firm hand on the shoulder of Grace. The one I came to see simply appears. That’s the actual Maya Quinn and holy shit she’s so tall and beautiful. With a front row view I can see her pale skin and pitch black painted nails resting on Grace’s shoulder. Her fingers are so long and delicate, and slowly squeezing that shoulder with confident pressure. Maya has this deep gorgeous vibrant slightly curled red hair and green eyes that speak to you. There's just this pull I feel when I look into her eyes. Her glasses are so sexy perched on her delicate yet sharp nose. Her face is slim and the makeup is light, much the same as my own. Wait, what is she wearing? That’s not what you would normally see at a professional speaking event. At least I don’t think so, I haven’t been to many. Those thigh high boots are built for creating thoughts of sin in the minds of those who view them. Complemented by a long split black skirt with a red inner lining showing off her long toned legs all the way to her upper thigh. Up to a tight vest showing cleavage and her bare toned arms. Wearing that I don’t know if she’s here to speak about women in the workplace or try to sell us something. I shake my head to clear my thoughts, then lock in.

“Grace, your place is not to proclaim to others what emotions they are supposed to feel. But guide them toward understanding the ones they do feel. What kind of psychologist dictates that it’s natural to be nurturing when plenty don’t have that urge, that inclination at all. Does that mean something is wrong with them? That they are missing something by not feeling the need to take care of others. Does plurality mean truth in your mind? All it means is a trend and a possible way to be. Almost all ways of life are correct just so long as they don’t take away too many of the rights of others. Now go to the green room. I will speak to you more thoroughly on this matter there.” Maya speaks in such a direct way in public, berating the woman in such a sophisticated way, it does sound rehearsed. Was this staged? Going by Grace’s downcast, embarrassed expression, it doesn’t look staged. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and turn to see Professor Carter rushing out onto the stage. Maya just slowly turns her head and looks at her for a moment. Professor Carter stops and slowly walks backwards quietly back into the shadows of backstage. I find myself leaning forward in my chair along with my friends, if it is staged, it certainly caught everyone’s attention.

“I absolutely do love to make an entrance. A simple introduction would hardly get the gazes of so many jaded bored college students to perk up again. My name is Maya Quinn, I am obligated to say I am not descended from the medicine woman, because my mother loved that joke. It’s not a funny joke. The reference is almost as ancient as I am. You can look it up online if you like. I am aware of how you hate not being in the know about irrelevant random trivia that you will forget in five minutes. Typically Professor Carter would introduce me, much as she did the other speakers. As the sharp eyed among you may have noticed I chose to make my own entrance. I am here to speak on options and take you down the road of possibility. This world is not limitless. You do not get to do whatever the fuck you want to. That’s what children get to do. I know, I’m jealous of them too. If you aren’t then you have forgotten how wonderful endless possibility is. This world is looking to kick you in the face over and over again. I am going to try to teach you how to duck. Then beyond that so you can see the kick coming, then choose a different route. The unfortunate truth is women, we just aren’t quite as able to kick back quite as hard as an average man can. That’s why we have to see the kick coming so it never touches us in the first place. Then walk proudly forward past the man who is on the floor after being kicked. For that, we are better equipped. Men get muscles. We get to learn body management the hard way. Through experience. We have to keep track of ourselves, be aware of our emotional states, our physical state. Protect ourselves. This naturally developed self awareness trains us, hones us just a little bit more. Many of us will have a little more empathy as we all have shared experiences. But so do men. You know, rock hard erections and muscles. Not a bad deal for them.” She pauses and looks over the crowd clearly finding the men there and and holds her hands out in front of her for a moment to let her words sink in. And let the chuckles die down.

“We are all people, all live in the same world, all have a unique perspective. Until that perspective is shared, we don’t know what you want, we don’t know who you are, and we shouldn’t give a fuck about you, everyone has their own problems. Yours aren’t the worst, but they are happening to you so they are the most important. If you feel your problems aren’t that big of a deal, guess what, time to listen to someone else’s then and give them a hand, or just go fucking have a good time cause you won at life. Then try to give a hand to others who haven’t discovered what living happily is. You don’t have to give yourself away to be a good person. What I say and will say will sound very contradictory but that’s because it’s not the same answer for everyone. Just think how god damn boring it would be in life if everyone had the same values as you, the same wants as you. I shudder to think of such a place, what a horrible world that would be. Arguing and disagreeing isn’t evil, it isn’t wrong, it is natural. Yet most can’t see the difference between disagreeing, arguing, and attacking others. Attacking is wrong, that’s the line. You may hurt my beliefs and thoughts and opinions, but don’t hurt me. Is that a blurry line? Absolutely as we are our beliefs. So it feels like we are being attacked. It’s tough, it’s confusing, it’s fucking strange and it can feel like everyone is against you, judging you. Your beliefs can make you feel like you are part of something. Being with a group which has so so many are on your side, it will cause you to feel you are absolutely correct in your beliefs. Anyone who doesn’t agree is the enemy, they’re after you. Their existence somehow affects you, and threatens your way of life. Even if your way of life is trash on a steaming pile of shit lit on fire by Hillbilly JimBob and JeanBob. Sorry to the Bobs out there, but don’t be a JimBob. JimBob you know what you did, you know.” She takes a deep breath and leans forward. Then backs up again.

“In life we need to just take a step back, and self assess. Yes, reflect, look back, learn from your mistakes. Otherwise you just keep making them and you get to be on the endless loop. An endless möbius strip to nowhere. First question, Are your beliefs designed to bring others down and make them less than you? Yes, then you believe in making the world become less so you personally can feel like more. Do you wish to attack someone for saying something you disagree with? They may be right, they may be wrong, but I guarantee that you are wrong. Do you need to mention slavery, Hitler, or some other such horrible event in order to make your point? If so, you have no point, and are using a horrible event in human history to shut the other person up because they can’t argue against you anymore. Not because they are wrong, because there’s no point. You can argue against a smart person, but all you get when you argue with a stupid person is more stupid. Do your ideas boil down to us vs them. Unless those people are physically assaulting you, directly stealing from you, or other such crimes, then you are probably on the bad side of things. Now is the victim being blamed for the crime? Is the perpetrator claiming to be the victim? Shouldn’t have been there in the first place is a big red flag. Just question, common sense is a superpower. These are really basic. Or just avoid these issues. Life’s too short to get hung up on this. Moving on, I don’t like these topics either. That’s why I put them in the part of my talk where many people zone out.”

“If you want to be cared about then you have to do things that are easy for some, and almost impossible for others. You must learn to share. Share your real personal experiences openly and honestly, because vulnerability opens the door for others to feel natural empathy, and offer genuine help and more. That sharing does not guarantee assistance of course. You must still ask for it directly because no one can read minds. Asking for help feels frightening for many, some people just shut down and can’t do it. Yet the alternative of pretending everything is fine often leads to unnecessary and unwanted isolation. Right now, during college, most of you enjoy a rare protected environment where mistakes cost only a grade instead of destroying your entire future. Some of you might equate a failing grade with total personal failure, but real life outside these walls delivers consequences that hit much harder and with far less mercy.”

“So what do I know about the consequences? Who am I to even speak to you? I’m wealthy right? Only successful people would speak up here. I don’t know what it’s like. The world sucks now previous generations fucked so many things up, and yes they did and are.” She frowns at that, shakes her head slightly then adjusts her glasses.

“I was a farm girl from the Midwest who lived on a farm until I was twelve years old. I have five older brothers, no sisters, and we barely got by. I learned to cook and handle the farm at a very young age. By eight years old I did all the cooking in the house and had to give advice to my brothers that my mother no longer could. Was it good advice? Hell no, I was eight. Did they listen? Again no, I was eight. I had to be the heroine of this story which simply meant doing all I could to just keep food on the table. Grocery shopping with my oldest brother while my dad worked himself to the bone. At twelve there was a large storm and lightning struck and burned that cursed farm to the ground. We got away fine but that was it, everything was gone that we had worked on our whole lives. Up in smoke. Insurance was very slow to pay and we lived in a tiny apartment with my Aunt, Uncle and their kids, still all boys by the way, for six months. My dad got a new job painting street and traffic light poles at a factory. Insurance money eventually came through and we sold the land and got a decent house. Still two to a room including me with my oldest brother. Even through all of this we were never miserable, love without any power, but we had life. My brothers fought all the time. Very rarely broke any body parts. They are huge men 6’4’’ to 6’10’’, big fucking Irish brutes and the loveliest of Teddy Bears. Like many large men they learn to move carefully to avoid harming others. To watch out for the little guy. Love, without power, is a very potent kind of love. Because it is so precious. It’s all we had. It’s why those without power must find kindness, and need to discover love. They have this desperate deep inherent need to be loved. While unfortunately feeling unworthy of it. A love that when life kicks you over and over you can bring each other out of it. Out of the darkness, together. That’s how I became successful. I found that love and never wanted to feel helpless again to be able to protect those I love. I gave everything I had, every fucking moment of every day to do so. Life got a little more normal after that, I played all the sports, my brothers played obligatory football and basketball and some others but all they had going for them was being big, they are complete nerds at heart and I love them for it. High School in a small town is different. We had a great school, bullying was not tolerated, fights sure. We were young, stupid, and would drink at someone’s farm and have great times, nothing else to do. Eventually I went to college through a volleyball scholarship and met new people to love and bring into my life. I won’t bore you with my college story. You’re all making your own, maybe someday you will get to tell it to me. I got my master’s and eventually my doctorate in business administration. Two of my brother’s became doctors so can’t have them being the only ones with the right to be called doctors. Plus it leads back to my opening joke of Dr. Quinn. Look at that, I can even do callbacks.”

“While I was getting my masters I contracted ovarian cancer, which was a long battle but still somehow managed to attend school during that time. My fiancee left me without even telling me I had to call him and my number was blocked to realize it. I lost the ability to have children of my own, and some have told me that makes me less of a woman because of an illness. Yes once you learn to duck, life certainly aims lower and tries to kick you quite literally in the crotch. You survive and get stronger for doing so or break. Then some manage to piece themselves back together again. After I recovered let’s just say I decided to break others instead and leave it at that. That made me feel powerful, but it wasn’t me. I was miserable until I met someone who helped bring me back to balance. Unfortunately cancer took her from me, I continued on as we all must in life, to always try to be someone she can be proud of.” Her hand shakes and she clenches it closed and sets her fist down on the podium.

“If any of you were paying attention when I said share your lives, I shared some of myself with everyone listening. All of you have a little piece of me in your minds. To feel just a little closer is a first step in understanding. Knowing where my words come from helps to give my words weight. So you can know that others have it tough. Then share your own hard times and maybe, just maybe, feel a little better. So that you can make it through, you can indeed ‘do this’. Sure some of you are stubborn, and are like no it doesn’t make us close bitch. I totally don’t care about you random lady that the school made me come here and listen to. That’s alright it would be a shitty world if everyone had the same reaction and I am glad some of you are so fucking badass that you don’t need advice from some middle aged lady. There are no perfect answers on this sloppy planet. I hope each one of you knows that. Feminism isn’t about having all the options, it’s about having the same amount of options as men, in a lot of ways we get better options, and in others far far less. Men and women are different, women and women are different too, men and men are different. What I want is for us to learn to treat each person individually. Not oh they are from so and so country they are this, or they are a woman they are this, oh they didn’t go to college they are this. That’s taking away a person’s face, and once you don’t see that anymore, then we are no different than cattle. Many of those with power don’t see the face anymore, don’t have empathy. You don’t have to feel empathy for others all the time. That would be horribly, emotionally draining and make you dislike the world instead of love it. Intellectually we can put ourselves in their place and think about their life, understand if we are doing something wrong or not. Feminist, I am an individualist who truly loves those I find right for that wonderful feeling. Giving love feels just as good as getting it. If love is too strong a word, just try to care then. Also get laid now and then safely, truly a mystery why we have so many hang ups about something so inherently basic and human. We have the technology now. This doesn’t apply to everyone, it's also great to be asexual. Anyway, that last few sentences probably means I won’t get to speak here again, or they will have me speaking here often. Depends on how irresistible I am. Thanks for attending my Maya Ramble.” She winks and laughs without a care in the world. Either consequence is clearly fine in her mind. Burning bridges a small price to pay to get her point across. She pauses before leaving the stage, and she looks directly into my eyes. I swear she was looking right at me when she winked. Then I feel something in my hand and look around not seeing anyone. It’s just a piece of paper that reads backstage pass room 183. This isn’t a concert to have a backstage pass at, and who gave this to me? Must have been the mysterious JimBob, he apparently knows what he did.